Choosing two images from Berger’s Ways of Seeing is difficult because, as Berger points out, “the relationship between what we see and what we know is never settled.” I believe he emphasizes his claim by condensing some of humanity’s greatest works of art into his cramped, black-and-white reader, which I find frustrating. Recalling Walter Benjamin’s discussion in The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, the ritual with which one approaches Manet’s Olympia (1832-1833), for example, is greatly reduced when one finds it tucked away on page 63 of Ways of Seeing. If beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, and Kant might say it is, then even the great nude traditions, which are thoroughly represented here among Berger’s discussion of the objectification of women, cannot compete with and indeed I think are less beautiful than works which are complemented, instead of restricted, by the book’s format. The assignment is to select two images from Ways of Seeing: does this mean two images that I find beautiful within the context of the page, or am I to select two images that are only being represented by Berger, with the full knowledge of, say, the actual presence of Manet’s Le dejeuner sur l’herbe (1832-1833)?
Kant says that the Beautiful pleases universally, so maybe these greater works so subjected to reproduction may be called ‘beautiful’ simply by virtue of their enduring popularity. If that’s the case then one could argue that the Christian works included in Ways of Seeing, many of which predate Manet’s work by several hundred years, are more beautiful, because we’ve kept them around longer. But, perhaps there is something about Manet’s expression that makes his work more instantly recognizable than, for example, the Italian painter Cimabue (1240-1302).
I’m not particularly drawn to most of the images in Ways of Seeing because I find the format discouraging. How can anyone decide if these small, murky images deserve to be called beautiful? If I’d never seen a proper representation of a Manet or a Rembrandt then I would have trouble accepting Berger’s arguments. However, Berger’s subtle manipulation of the book’s layout has produced one notable piece (as Kant might say, notable to me at least), Peasant Boy Leaning on Sill, by Bartolome Murillo (1617-82).
I can’t exactly describe what is beautiful about this portrait. There is an innocence to this child, certainly, which Berger is absolutely intent on transcribing to his readers; otherwise, this picture wouldn’t be so large. In the earlier chapters, which concern the objectification of women, neither the timeless classic paintings or paralleled, contemporary advertisements are treated with this degree of reverence—Berger doesn’t even cite the picture of the peasant boy, because he might distract his reader. The black-and-white also compliment this portrait of a human being, a child whose face, unlike the other portraits in this chapter, isn’t wrinkled or scarred by the degradation of knowledge, experience, and the general stresses of adulthood.
Opposite this painting Berger includes a photograph of a young girl (Sarah Burge, 1883, Dr Barnardo’s Homes, Unknown Photographer). His emphasis here, in a chapter about art and the ranks of the real and common, is on children—children, like empty canvases, are unspoiled and pure. In a discussion about the beautiful, and the imitation of the beautiful, artists can always try to capture and manufacture what they believe is a beautiful image, but as soon as paint touches the white surface the illusion of possibilities is gone; the canvas is marred by a brush stroke.
Maybe the Beautiful is about possibilities, and not certainties.
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